


Going Home

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dark!Mycroft, Gen, Hurt!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128597254#t128597254">this prompt </a>. Sherlock has his reasons when he’s reluctant to accept cases suggested by Mycroft, however interesting they might be. If Mycroft’s high rank position is somehow compromised by his actions, the consequences will be unpleasant. After his almost fiasco with Irene Adler and the canceled “flight of the dead”, Sherlock knows what awaits him. Physical punishment, as always when he fails his family. He doesn’t want John to learn about it, it’s too humiliating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Home

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta primalmusic!

Mycroft’s cases are always an intriguing challenge, and a well-paid one besides. But there’s a reason Sherlock is so reluctant to take Mycroft’s persistent offers, a reason why he makes up unconvincing excuses. _The stuff I’ve got on is just too big, I can’t spare the time._ Or, _I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work._ The thing is, if he fails, there will be consequences other than not getting his pay cheque. Family reputation is at stake, and unfortunately, Sherlock knows all too well what it means, disappointing his family. He’d rather avoid it.

And yet, sometimes—often, in fact—he falls for a good mystery, and then regrets it a lot, just like he does now. This time, he failed spectacularly. Yes, he managed to smother his mistake in the end, but Mycroft’s position had been put at risk: a security leak caused by his little brother, what a shame. The contents of Irene’s phone will make up for any inconvenience Sherlock may have caused him. But it doesn’t mean that Sherlock’s recklessness is forgiven.

Now Mycroft is sitting in the chair opposite him, long fingers toying with the handle of his favourite umbrella. “John could come too.”

“No,” Sherlock bursts out fiercely. Mycroft’s lips slightly twitch at his miscalculation: in Sherlock’s side vision, John frowns. Oh. He must be offended that Sherlock so obviously doesn’t want him near his family house while Mycroft invites them both.

“Boring family matters,” Sherlock explains, more angry with himself than with Mycroft. “John would be bored.”

“Oh yes, perhaps,” Mycroft agrees suavely. “Next time then.”

Uncomfortable silence again. John is fidgeting on the sofa, feeling unwelcome in his own living room. “Tea?” he suggests at last, and hastily retreats to the kitchen.

 _You don’t have to do this_ , Sherlock tells himself. _They can’t make you now; you have a choice_. His palms clench into fists in his lap, and he’s glad that John’s too busy in the kitchen to see it. Mycroft does, but Mycroft knows what he’s thinking anyway—and raises his eyebrows at him: _So intransigent, are we? If you think yourself a grown-up, little brother, shouldn’t you bear responsibility for wrong decisions taken?_ And of course he’s right.

“Fine,” Sherlock nods briskly. “I’m going with you. John stays.”

John shouldn’t know. Hopefully, he’s not observant enough to notice anything.

Mycroft smiles beatifically. “As you wish, brother dear.”

***

 _Funny, isn’t it_ , a thought faintly lingers at the back of his mind. A thin whistling sound—and he can’t help a shudder, down on his knees, cheek pressed to the coffee-coloured bedspread. _It’s so easy to reduce you to a flinching mess, again._ He’d thought he was over it. Had he ever been wrong.

The room is dimly lit, the curtains are shut. The door is closed, though no one could possibly interfere—no servants are allowed into this wing at night. He’s kneeling, shirtless, on the carpet at the foot of his bed ( _The room is always ready for you, Sherlock. It’s your home too after all_ ), and his arms are spread along the bedside, exposing his bare shoulders. It’s not as humiliating as it could have been. As it has been, before. 

Behind him, Mycroft must be flexing the fingers of his right hand, giving it a break. It’s not over yet, and Sherlock knows it. Just a respite. He’s breathing shakily into the coverlet, its fringe ticklish against his face. His shoulders are burning. It’s fair. He deserves it.

A short time to recover, for which he’s grateful, and then…

“There now,” Mycroft says. “Sorry to have you waiting.”

Whoosh!—a fierce sound, and a loud _crack_ on impact. Never mind that he’d been expecting it; Sherlock gasps into the coverlet anyway. The dense fabric muffles this sound—but not the next one when the strap wraps around his chest. Mycroft has the decency not to comment on it.

The strap is narrow, whip-like; a heavy grade of leather. Newly bought. If only he could concentrate, he’d be able to tell where it was purchased, but every time it lands square across his shoulders— _ah_ —a burst of pain makes his mind shirt-circuit— _ah_ —and leaves nothing there but "please let it stop please". He’s not restrained, he could walk out any moment, which makes it even worse because of course he won’t, too proud to admit it’s too much.

He loses count, eventually, and his composure too, unwanted tears stinging in the corners of his tightly shut eyes—he’s not crying—god forbid, crying in front of Mycroft, like he’s five again. It’s just a reaction to pain, his eyes watering, he can’t control it, he can only hope Mycroft won’t notice. He can only hope it stops soon… it should, at some point…

And it does. “Enough, I think,” Mycroft says. He’s pensively tapping with the strap against his palm as he watches Sherlock struggling to his feet. “I hope you have enough sense to spend the night here. It’s no good running around in your present state. I’ll have a car deliver you to London tomorrow, should you wish to leave. But you’re always welcome to stay, of course.”

No asking if he’s all right, no ruffling his hair with crude affection, like their father would have done. That’s not Mycroft’s style of dealing with family matters. He’s all business-like, and maybe it’s for the best.

Sherlock considers calling a taxi, just to contradict him, but reaching for his shirt and coat (which he’d dropped to the floor beside the bed, despite Mycroft’s disapproving huff) and leaning down to put on his shoes seems like an effort not worth taking.

***

The house is silent, save for irregular creaking of furniture now and then, and an old chiming clock striking out the quarters of the hours somewhere far away. Old familiar sounds. Sherlock’s never been nostalgic.

He’s lying listlessly in the darkness, prostrated face down on the coverlet, telling himself that he’ll get into bed properly in a minute, maybe two. The burning sensation in his shoulders is disturbing, but it will eventually die down to an itch. The redness will generally fade away within a few hours too, spectacular as it might be now. But as he knows from experience, some of the most inflamed weals tend to linger on his too-pale skin, especially where the strap’s edges have lashed into flanks, so he should be careful not to wander around the flat half-naked in John’s presence for quite a while. Pity. It’s rather amusing, the way John stares at him for a second, blinks, and then tries to look elsewhere.

Sherlock catches himself smiling. John.

If _John_ were his family, what would it feel like?

In the silence, his phone suddenly trills a text alert, muffled by the folds of his crumpled coat. Sherlock gingerly moves to the edge of the bed, reaches for his coat in the darkness, digs out the phone. The message reads: "How’s your family meeting?"

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then quickly types in, “Tedious, as expected. S”.

Maybe John is just bored, but still, the awareness that John is thinking of him this very moment is suddenly overwhelming.

The answer comes within a few seconds. “Coming home soon, then?”

“Tomorrow. S.”

Sherlock lays the phone on the pillow beside his head, the tips of his fingers lightly touching its rim. He knows it’s ridiculous, but it feels like John is here, beside him. His breathing slowly evens out, and if his eyes are moist again, for absolutely no reason this time, there’s no one to see it.

Home. Yes, he’s going home tomorrow.


End file.
